Tag Archives: bitchin

Wipe That Fucking Frosting Off Your Cake

Last night I left my filing cabinet key stuck into the lock on the filing cabinet in my office.  The filing cabinet key unfortunately shares a ring with my apartment keys.  So imagine my distress when, after my hour and ten minute commute home, I realized that I couldn’t get in.

So The Pants came to get me, like good Pants do, me and my bag of frozen stir-fry shrimp.  I collapsed into a little heap in his car and started crying like a big twat because it’s the worst when my brain, which I’ve considered to be a pretty good one before, doesn’t work the way it should.  It’s a wonder that I remember to put on shoes in the morning.  I once had a series of Post-Its on the back of my apartment door telling me exactly what to do that day.  And not just like “don’t forget your lunch,” but more like “write a list of things to do.”

Is there a way to rinse your brain off?  Because sometimes I’d sort of like to take off the top of my head and clean all of the barnacles out of my brain matter.  So I could remember my keys and get into my apartment after a long day of work and shit.  That would be so refreshing.  Maybe the canoe trip next month will be like a brain cleanse?  I hope so.  Because eventually there is so much shit going on in my head, and no discernible way to organize it, that I start to forget things, then I start to think that Bad Things Are Going to Happen pretty much all the time, then I just go to sleep and don’t wake up for a few days.

To: Target Stores

Attn: Customer Complaints


I just thought I should let someone know that I don’t appreciate the way your check-out girl looked at me last night.  I was purchasing a fresh set of clothes, underwear, some makeup essentials, a toothbrush, and a six pack of beer.  Now I don’t know what kind of nastiness this young lady had in mind, but I was just trying to make it through my evening.  I don’t need to be judged by chirpy, red-shirted cashier girls who seem to have nothing to think about other than the possibility that complete strangers may be preparing for a pre-walk of shame.  How dare she?

I locked myself out, you bitch!


C. Cake Jones

500 Ways to Suck

Everybody went to see that movie 500 Days of Summer last summer.   I went to see it and some of it was good but most of it was bad.  Anyway, everyone’s favorite dream girl was in it, and she was costumed in such a way that swept the young female nation, and made every girl want to be her, and every boy want to fuck her while she thought about maybe breaking up with him.

I ain’t gonna lie, I thought she was cute, too.  Her little outfits were pretty fucking adorable.  It was inspiring to think that maybe it’s that easy to just walk into a thrift store and find assloads of cheap clothes that are your size and your budget and look super cute and effortless with all of the other thrift store finds you have going for you and they don’t smell at all like thrift store, ever.  Sure, it gave me the whole “fashion is easy and will make you feel better” vibe for about two days until I realized that I just can’t seem to motivate myself to put out even the tiniest bit of effort to Be Cuter.  Sure, if someone wanted to come along and dress me, I’d wear something besides my Harry Potter t-shirt and ripped jeans from last year’s Gap sale.  If I felt like getting up earlier or staying up later to steam my Peter Pan collared shirt and find the brooch I want for my vest and make sure my patterned tights were clean and laid out, I’d do it.  Instead I say hell with it and wear the pants I wore on Monday and some flip flops.

So I was talking about this phenomenon with someone, saying that I don’t know how some girls do it, how they ended up always knowing what goes together, how they have A Style, one which makes other people say “that’s her Style”.  Maybe there’s some kind of guide they follow?  Maybe someone sat around and wrote up a guide for a wiki and maybe it includes a mention of a book you should “try to read” because it’s the book Favorite Dream Girl was reading when she met her husband.  Maybe that makes me puke a little and maybe the person who sent this how-to list to me, with whom I was dumb enough to have a conversation about a Zooey Deschanel dreamy dream girl character, should be killed and eaten by rapists.

And maybe I should have worn different shoes with this outfit because I have this sinking feeling that my life will never be like a hit summer indie rock movie and I think with different shoes I could ignore that feeling.

My Little Crazy

When I was eight I asked my mom if I could have a horse, with the promise that I would clean out a space in the basement for it.  I swore that I would go and find hay for it and build a pen for it in the corner by the water heater.  It made perfect sense to me.  I even had a horse picked out, an aging ex-race horse featured in the Pets section of the Dollar & Sense that had been turned out to pasture and was only $600 to the right owner.  “This horse would love our basement,” I told her when I showed her the grainy photo.  “It’s not too tall.”  My mother, of course, said no to the whole horse idea, but only because, she said, “race horses are too high-strung.”

I didn’t know what that meant at the time but I thought it had something to do with their legs, like maybe their legs were too long to fit in our basement.  But now that I am an adult, and have been referred to as “high strung” by pretty much everyone who has known me in a personal capacity, I know that it means “bat shit crazy” and also “easily pissed off by everything.”

I have been pretty high strung lately.

*Exhibition Opening*

Exhibit A.

Drunk dude walking two filthy little floor mop dogs down the street the other night, allowed both unleashed dogs to approach me and the people I was with.  Both dogs, of course, proceeded to do that weird dog sneeze thing where they splatter you with their spit, through their nose, over and over again.  Both dogs made runs for my bare feet and ankles, which, for some reason, dogs love to lick…and one of the only things that grosses me out is for dogs to lick at my toes, feet, and ankles.  I mean really grosses me out.  Like makes me want to peel off my skin and have it bleached while I beat myself in the head with a hammer to drive out the memory of cold dog tongue on my skin.  I’ve got that pre-puke lump in my throat right now just writing about it.  Both dogs crowded around my legs, scraping at my tights, trying to get me to pet them.  I backed away.  Repeatedly.  Waved my hands at them.  “Go on, no…go on now…don’t…no…”

So the drunk dude finally started talking to his dogs, who, I am sure, understand English perfectly well, especially slurred Tequila-stink English.  “Come on, she’s scared of you…come on now, she’s scaaaared.”  And, wouldn’t you know it, for some reason the dogs had lost their translation skills at the moment, and paid absolutely no heed to his half-assed commands.  He finally grabbed both of them by their slimy little collars and pulled them away.

“They should be on leashes,” I said.

“Oh well thanks for letting me know,” he said.

“Well,” I retorted, “it is the law?”


“Just put the dogs on leashes, and I won’t have to.”

And that’s when I basically got told to shut the fuck up by a member of my party.  The rest of the group I was with had been, for some reason completely lost on me, enjoying the presence of the animals.  Then I went and ruined it with my Strong Opinions About Strange Dogs.  And my Confrontational Methods of Communication With Strangers With Strange Dogs.  Then everyone was pretty much weirded out and pissed at me for being such a senior citizen about it.

I do not hate the dogs.  I hate the owners who fail to put them on leashes because they assume that everyone will love them.  They prefer not to see their pets as possible risks to other people (allergies, bites, holes snagged in tights, basic fucking preference to not touch weird animals), and will quickly ascend to a level of unholy anger if you even dare to suggest that you don’t necessarily want their dog’s company as much as they do.  Dogs are cool, but people fucking suck.  And when they have dogs and don’t train them, it’s annoying as fuck.  Like when you’re dating someone who’s mom has a bunch of little anklebiter Scottie dogs, who she allows to put their paws in your lap and reach up and lick the food on your plate when you come over for dinner.  Then you’re expected to still want to eat the fucking food that the dog managed to lick.  Or when you sit in a chair at her house and are politely told that the reason the fattest of the Scotties has sat on you and scrubbed dried dog shit from its exposed asshole all over your white skirt is because “That’s Smoopy’s chair, he likes to sit there, hee hee hee!”


I’m not a total asshole about dogs.  I love them.  They are good animals.  When I was a kid, my dog was my best friend and I cried for months after she died.  (Then my sister drew a chalk outline of the dog on our front porch and I cried for a few more months.)  But my dog always knew it was a dog.  It didn’t crowd people who came in the front door, jump on the couch and sit on their laps, put its paws on their clothes, lick at their feet.  It didn’t sit by the dinner table slurping at the edges of plates.  I walked it on a leash and even off a leash it didn’t run up to people like a retard.  What it did do was let out a low growl when strangers approached, until it was told everything was OK.  It ate food out of its own bowl and ran to get my mom if any of the kids fell and hurt themselves.  My dog was like a big, loving Lassie.

Dogs are like kids, in a sense.  I don’t see why people hate on me for not liking obnoxious animals (i.e., obnoxious owners) but will roll their eyes and express distaste with obnoxious kids (i.e., obnoxious parents) in Target on a Saturday.  Nobody says “Awww, c’mere!” and gives big hugs to sticky, messy little shoeless children when they run into you and knock a bunch of shit out of your hands.  They look at the parents like “Can’t you handle your fucking kids?” So why am I a jerk because I won’t allow someone to let their pets claw at me and climb on me or even fucking approach me?  You wouldn’t be happy if a pantsless three-year-old climbed up onto your lap and wiped its ass on you.  So why is it okay if a fluffy little dog does it?  “Well doggies don’t know any better!” you could say.  Maybe not.  But neither do three-year-olds.  Kids and dogs don’t know shit until you teach them.  And if your drunk ass is too lazy to teach them, that’s what leashes are for, pendejo.

However, I probably could have politely asked Drunk Man to get his dogs.  I do have the capability to be polite, you know.

Exhibit B.

I was crossing the street on my way to work yesterday, and a man in a van was, of course, edging out over the crosswalk, looking the opposite direction from where I was crossing on MY LIGHT, trying to pull out in between bursts of traffic and run a red light.  I looked up just in time to realize that he wasn’t looking in my direction, and didn’t see me, and that’s why there was a large green van creeping up in front of me, barring my way across the street.  I stopped with my toes about an inch from the guy’s front fender, and when the shock wore off, my toes were about an inch from his front right tire.  So I said “HEY!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, sorry about that!” he claimed as I crossed the street.  I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, but I crossed the fucking street as fast as I could just to get away from him.

I don’t know about other humanoids, but almost being hit by a car really revs up my adrenaline and makes me a bit nervy.  And it happens from time to time because people are too stupid to walk in straight lines, let alone drive cars properly, and I have to cross streets often because I walk and jog everywhere.  And I know there’s a lot to think about when you’re driving, but holy fuck, there’s a lot MORE to think about when you’re driving and trying to do something illegal just to save yourself some time, isn’t there?

So anyway.  The dude was apologizing and I was walking away and THE SECOND I made it across the street around the front of his vehicle and my back was to him, he ceased his apologies and said “Now wipe that fucking look off your face.”

I guess the “fucking look” he was referring to is the look of someone who’s almost been hit by a van, and is understandably a little jangled.  I guess I was supposed to giggle and smile and say “Oh, no problem!” and skip along my merry way.  I guess I was supposed to be pleased that I wasn’t dead and just wink and smile like someone without a thought in their head.


Because I don’t think that’s too much to ask.  He looked a little surprised.  I can’t figure out if I would be  happier person if I just smiled at stupid people and pretended that my guts weren’t boiling.  I mean, normal people deal with this shit by being like “Ohhh it’s cool, thaaaanks” to the offending driver, then mutter “Wow, that guy was a douchebag” under their breath.

Normal people wouldn’t stand on a corner and yell back at him.  Okay, okay, I get it.

Exhibit C.

A certain Starbucks on a certain corner in a certain neighborhood of this city is the most depressing place on the planet.  That’s because I was in there this morning, and this loud woman in expensive jogging/yoga fusionwear was hollering her 4 espresso orders over my head from where she stood behind me in line.  I had to say “What?” twice to understand what the guy at the register was saying to me, because this bitch was obviously on crack, and was going on and on about “the great synergy you guys have going on behind that counter!  Look at that!  Look how he takes my order and he makes it and he rings it up!  What great synergy!  Don’t you agreeeeeeeee about the synergyyyyyyy!?”

I mean, what the fuck.

But I guess that the real mistake is going into a Starbucks in that particular affluent neighborhood and expecting something other than a bunch of totally bored, pilled-out, rich-piece-of-shit gaywad housewives in workout wear jostling for the position of Most Memorable Visitor of the Day.  Again, my fault.

*End of the Exhibition*

So there are three examples of my crotchety nature, which have all occurred in the span of the last three days.  Here are three examples of why I will end up alone, living on a hilltop behind the motel, pulling the curtains tighter every day and filling the downstairs bathroom with used adult diapers until the floor rots out.  It’s because nastiness and confrontation and sheer annoyance with the constant yap of other human beings in my path don’t make for cute anymore.  Maybe it’s one thing to read about it, maybe people think it’s funny when I write a Facebook status update about how I yelled at my neighbor for borrowing my mixer and failing to wipe off the red food coloring before returning it 2 months later.  But I think that’s where it ends, and lately I feel like people are sick of it.  Or they’re just really polite, positive, happy people, who don’t necessarily want to be around someone who’s always like “I don’t like the way you order your coffee, WANNA FIGHT?!”

“I don’t like your dog, WANNA FIGHT?”

“You almost ran over me, WANNA FIGHT?”

So this counts of Day 1 of my new experiment, wherein I force myself to be goddamn fucking positive about every annoying thing that happens to me until I don’t notice annoying things anymore.  At least, that is the outcome I hope for.  I will try not to be so affected by society.  I am going to relax and smile like a jackass when people almost run over me.  I am going to stand there and coo while strange animals lick at my feet.  I am going to block out the annoying sounds of other people in chain coffee shops.  I will not let hipster cunts at house parties get under my skin.  I am not even going to write about the hipster cunt at the house party over the weekend who got under my skin!!!  See?  I am already making progress!

Thus begins the Summer of My Ignorance.

I am officially not bothered by anything.



what’s been going on with you?


Filed under Uncategorized

Queef it again, Sam.

My Final Semester of Grad School

(also titled I Am Going to Shoot You With  A Gun Now), starring Myself.

Have you heard of this thing called the Internet?  It is the word we use for a bunch of computers that are connected.  These connections allow people to rapidly move ideas and things back and forth.  Here is what the internet looks like:

Electric spaghetti = the Internet

The Internet allows us access to something referred to “e-mail” (the widely-used abbreviation for the term “electronic mail”).  Electronic mail is, for most people, a very confusing concept.  You know, people who are more comfortable with skinning a sheep, preparing a square of vellum, crushing berries and deer bones for ink, and then rolling the whole business up and sealing it with wax so that it doesn’t come loose when the courier takes it over the rocky hills into the neighboring fiefdom.  The problem is that e-mail is annoyingly quick and involves hardly any prep work, or walking, for that matter.  In light of this, most people do not like it.  Take the elderly receptionist across the hall, who doesn’t understand the concept of “forwarding” an e-mail.  She likes to ask me questions by forwarding an e-mail to me, any e-mail, from whenever, from whoever, appending her questions somewhere within the many responses attached to that e-mail.  The questions have nothing to do with anything that any parties involved in the original e-mail chain are discussing.  What’s great is that if I reply, she sends this reply back to me, as well as to everyone else involved in the original e-mail.

This type of situation calls for a fresh e-mail, a new e-mail, one unfettered by irrelevant banter or business.  However, my coworker is under the impression that the Internet is under ration, and that we must carefully preserve every sheet of digital paper we have, lest we run out.  Can you imagine??  What if you clicked Compose and your Computermatronic Machine barked back, “YOU HAVE USED ALL OF YOUR E-MAILS.  PLEASE RECYCLE.”

He will eat you if you don't.

(This same receptionist believes in saving newspapers.  They are removed from the shelf near my desk every week, and found stuffed around her CPU under her desk, in true A&E “Hoarders” style, which probably has something to do with the facts that 1. her desk smells, and 2. her computer has caught fire before.  Of course, the smell could be the clinically depressed fish in their tepid water, which she stirs with her fingers to “wake ’em up”, the rotting food given to her by her “connection” in the cafe downstairs at the end of the day, stockpiled in her file cabinet, or the 14 large fountain drink cups filled with Pepsi from God-knows-when sitting in her overhead shelf.  But I’m pretty sure that the newspaper hoarding caused the fire.)

Anyway.  This information is neither here nor there.  But it sure is stinky!

I expect this sort of reaction to technology when dealing with someone who’s almost seventy and is too lazy to write on anything but cartoon animal Post-Its, or write with anything that doesn’t have a plastic ice cream cone or fuzzy Santa head on the end of it.  I do not, however, expect this kind of absolute fear and aversion to technology from the people who work in the Graduate Admissions Program Evaluations office at the institute of higher learning to which I pay lots of money (to be spent on things like Internet connections and e-mail programs).

When I say “pay lots of money,” I mean that in a few short months I will be paying out the ass and bleeding out the eyes because tuition loans will come knocking like Jesus on your nasty old heart, and I most likely will not just be handed a job as easily as they hand me a piece of paper saying I’m qualified to do a job.  So, it’s a little frustrating when they make it harder to GET that piece of paper by burying a million forms in the big yucky backyard I like to call “my school’s website,” and expect me to first know how many there are, that I need to go dig them up, then to actually go and dig them all up.

Not only are the forms outdated, containing references to permission numbers and systems no longer used by the university, they are also written for students who actually physically attend the university.  I mean, hey, if you’re going to have a blossoming online program, why take the extra half hour it might require to update a couple of things so that people who rely entirely on the website will know what the fuck they’re doing?  No.  Instead, directions are as follows:

Want to graduate?  Follow these steps carefully, and DO NOT CALL US.

1.  Go to this website.  Turn up speakers and listen carefully to instructions.  DO NOT CALL US.

2.  Open all 12 pdf forms, then close them again.

3.  Open all odd-numbered forms beginning with vowels only and save to your desktop.  Be sure that your desktop background is a picture of a waterfall or a kitten, as the forms will not work otherwise.

4.  Re-name form A yourlastname_yourfirstname_streetyougrewupon.pdf.  Rename form E yourlastname_biddlenuts_wtf.pdf.  Re-name remaining forms I, O, and U with this naming convention, except substitute your last name with the maiden names of maternal and paternal grandmothers, and for the third form just make some crap up.  For the first name, use the name of imaginary nuts (be sure to follow up imaginary nut name with “nuts”).  In the third field, use the names of the three architects of the tomb of Henry VII in alphabetical order respective to the form.

5.  Fill out all forms, print them, pee on them, then scan, save, and re-name following the filename conventions CLEARLY outlined in Step 4.

6.  Send to your grad advisor in an email with the subject line reading I DON’T LIKE YOU, EITHER in all caps.  Find your grad advisor’s e-mail address here.

7.  Failure to complete all of these steps exactly and fill out all forms correctly results in late graduation or no graduation at all.

8.  Please do not begin step 1 until you have filed the Permission to Fill Out Graduation Forms with the Forms Permission Office located behind the dog factory in Dongguan Province, China.  **This form must be hand-delivered.  Please bring 8 forms of I.D., excluding passports, state issued I.D.’s, and pieces of registered mail.  Please allow 18 months for approval of this form, during which you must establish legal residency in China.**


It’s probably like this because, in order to make any changes, there are 1,520 other forms to fill out in order to secure permissions, publishing rights, and rights to wipe one’s ass or take a coffee break while editing old forms.  So, might as well just leave them the way they are for full-time, on-campus students, scatter them in the web wind for the online students, and set a rigid schedule of deadlines for the completion of each form.  Didn’t get that Permission to Fuck Yourself form in on time?  Well, guess what, you don’t get to graduate.  So, you know, permission granted, you poor asshole.  Enjoy your Ramen, because you’re coming back to pay us this summer.

So, yeah.  When my school attempted to tell me via a mass e-mail that I wouldn’t be graduating until next fall, I decided to pick up the phone and call them, even though they haaaate that.  After about an hour on hold, I spoke with a woman who sounded like she was sitting in a La-Z-Boy with her jeans unbuttoned, and answering my question was keeping her from reaching for that 2-liter of grape soda on her side table.  You know, lots of heavy sighs and “let me seeeeeeee here” and crackly, spitty mouth sounds on her end of the phone.  She informed me that I couldn’t take the final course I needed to graduate because I hadn’t submitted my permission form that is apparently required for admission to the course.  I told her I’d send it that very second.  She proceeded to tell me that since the form takes 4 months to be approved by everyone who needed to sign off on it, I would have to either send it 4 months ago or send it now and wait four months.

“So,” I said, “Let me get this straight.”  Then I went into this scary lawyer mode, repeated everything she said, only in a way that made it sound just like the bullshit it was.  “You people can’t be bothered to move that form through your office to fast enough get five signatures in under four months?  EVER HEARD OF E-MAIL?  DO YOU HATE IT AS MUCH AS PHONE CALLS???”

That’s pretty much where my explanation of e-mail, discussed at the beginning of this blog post, came in.  While explaining the concept, I demonstrated it by e-mailing the form to her.  “See how quick that was?  Now just bang that through to all 5 people who need to sign it, and we’re done.”

If you do enough bitching and make people feel dumb enough, you get what you want.  Normally, I hate that approach, having spent so much time in retail, but as a retail employee, I never said, “Aw, you know what?  My handbook, written by Moses, clearly states that before you can buy those pants, you have to stand on your head and queef the Star Spangled Banner.”

So, guess who got into the final class she needs to graaaaaduaaaate on tiiiiime?

It’s me.  I threw in a little something about how I’d sue the all-fired shit out of them if they tried to make me pay for another semester of courses just because of a pissfuck form.

3 more months of school.

9,341 more 2-liters of grape soda.

Remaining forms to fill out: endless.


Filed under Uncategorized

Banana Cream Panties

I hate it.

I don’t know why the hell George Lopez is so important, or how he got to be where he is today, or who put him there.  I don’t get it.  I’ve only ever seen him yell things, like “WHO’S READY TO PARTY” and “LATE NIGHT IS FUN AGAIN” and “GEORGE IS HOME.”  Where the shit did he come from?  Why won’t he go back?  How do people get their own sitcoms when you’ve never heard of them?  And when that sitcom fails, how do they get ANOTHER show named after them?

You are not fooling me, George Lopez.

Oh, wipe that shit eating face off your head.

He always looks like someone colored him with crayons.  The bad crayons.  The ones at the bottom of the coffee can they pass around at youth group in the church basement…the broken ones in peach and orange that have been used to color over black and brown so they’re all smudgy.

Speaking of George Lopez, why does Keira Knightley always talk like she’s got a load of tobacco in her mouth?  Is her underbite that serious that she can’t speak properly?  If so, how the fuck did she get to be an actress?  Why do they pay her the big money to stand around and make that underbite face?

Exshhcuushe me?

Has anyone ever realized that in the movie Beethoven, the bad guy basically plans and plots for months just to fool a family into giving him their St. Bernard so he can shoot it in the head.  So that he can test a new kind of bullet.  To see like, what it does to a dog brain.

Sometimes I wonder why it couldn’t be ANY type of large dog.  Or why it couldn’t be ANY St. Bernard.  Why did it HAAAVE to be Beethoven?

I mean, you could argue that it’s because Beethoven got away from him when he was a puppy.  You could argue that, but that would be stupid.  How would anyone know which dog it was when the dog was full grown?

So anyway, obviously it HAD to be Beethoven.  Crazy Mad Scientist Bad Guy did not want to test the brain-exploders on any other dog.  So he spends several months, at least (because Beethoven’s all grown up when he comes collectin’) getting shit together to get Beethoven’s family to hand him over.  He masquerades as a veterinarian and somehow gets set up with his own vet’s office.

Another thing that bothers me is when people who are near pregnant women just CANNOT STOP bringing up the fact that there is a fetus in the room.

My Polish office-mate is knocked up, and hates it, and says to me every day “Theenk ov dis bevore you lie down wiz a man” before puking in her trash can.  She’s so negative and weird, and apart from the projectile vomit, I couldn’t ask for a better person to share my office.

So anyway, she’s been working on this project with this whore from Alumni Relations.  This fiftysomething cunt comes down to our office every single day and talks to her really loud, like she’s deaf because she’s Polish.  And then there’s the pregnancy thing.  She brings it up every chance she gets.  “Oh, if there’s wine at the event, I’ll need to have a glass or two!  But YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY, CAN YOU!?  NO, you CAN’T!”  Or she’ll take a stack of papers out of my office-mate’s hands and say “This is WAY too heavy for a pregnant lady!”

She uses entirely too much hair spray.  Her hair looks like some kind of fuzzy hat, like she takes it off a stand and screws it into a hole in her skull every morning.  She wears pantsuits in neutral colors with smart button down shirts and a little understated cross necklace.

Today she announced four times (the amount of times different people entered and exited our office) that she was going to remove the jacket segment of Sensible Neutral-Colored Pantsuit because she was “burning up.”  Every time she said this, she went on to say “It’ll happen to you someday!  It will!  I won’t go into detail!”  Most women chuckle out of politeness, but when she directed this at me I played stupid.  No, really.  I mean, you want to talk about every fucking stage of the life cycle of human female sexuality so bad, go ahead.  Tell me everything, you goddamn creep.  Want to do a demonstration on douching next?

She also sits at the study carrel in front of my desk and talks to the computer while she uses it.

“Now that’s not what I want!”

“OOOOH I didn’t mean to click there!”

“Wait…where is the…hmmm…OH!  Found it!  Hahahhaaha!”

If I needed a safe-sex reminder before putting my knees in the air, it would be this bitch.  If I got knocked up, she’d be in my face every day, trying to poison me with a cloud of aerosol hair products so she could slice me open with her raptor talon and eat my unborn child.

I like it, sort of.

Speaking of safe sex, Species and Species II are probably the best movies ever made.  Probably, but then again, probably not.  There are probably better movies, for better reasons.  Actually, nevermind.  You should watch them, though, if your boyfriend falls asleep and you’re in an uncomfortable position but you don’t want to wake him up by getting up to get the remote.  Yeah, in that case, watch them both, back to back, then watch a little bit of the beginning of the first one again.

Now that we’re on the subject of the things I do like, the things that are worth my time, we should talk about Yoplait.  Are you aware of how good it is?  Do you understand how they make yogurt taste like some kind of pie dessert, only it’s yogurt?  I don’t get it, but it’s good.  Pineapple Upside Down Cake?  Pina Colada?  Boston Cream Pie?  Are you shitting me?

Dear Yoplait,

Banana cream pie makes me banana cream my panties.



It’s just good, y’all.  You should try it.  Plus it’s LIGHT so you don’t have to worry about all those extra calories.

(Not that I do…yesterday at about this time I was dipping a shard of Crunch bar into a Mr. Pibb on a dare.)

(I dared myself.)

Okay, I also think that this is pretty fabulous:

It is a customizable cupcake go-kart.  You even get a hat to wear while you drive it, which is the top of the cupcake.  And Neiman Marcus is only charging $25,000 for it.  I’m starting a collection so I can afford one.  Not so much an official “collection” as a jar on my desk with a sign on it alluding to the fact that my 97 year old grandmother can’t afford the chemo she so desperately needs.  And a really sad look on my face.  Even though my granny ain’t 97 and she don’t got cancer, and when she dies it won’t be from anything but the piss and vinegar mixture she drinks every morning.

Pussy Crisis

There is a crazy receptionist on my floor.  She works across the hall from me and is older than shit and somehow finds something to cry about every single day.  Nobody puts up with her crap anymore, so anytime there’s a new person in the office who’s not used to her bullshit, who hasn’t yet had the chance to report her to HR,  she preys on their attention like it’s free hot bacon or something.  Because that new person doesn’t know any better and is usually trying to fit in.  She gets one whiff of someone who’s just trying to be polite and goes apeshit for it.

Oh, and by the way, she’s totally the type who fills garbage bags with any kind of free food left lying around for everyone to enjoy, to bring it home to her fatass husband.

She’s also the type who probably pushed her children down the stairs when they were little, or put mashed up heart medication in their food so they’d end up in the emergency room, and she’d get to sit at the nurse’s station and feed on everyone’s sympathy.


She called in on Monday.  As if that wasn’t enough, as if everyone would miss her SO BADLY and be SO WORRIED about her absence that they couldn’t carry on with their day, she had an email sent around to let everyone know that she wasn’ t sick, she was out because her cat needed to be put to sleep.

On Tuesday, someone in her department, someone who had worked there for a mere 3 years, resigned to work for PBR.  (HR at PBR…PBRHR?)

So since I am that unfortunate new person who still has to prove to her that I won’t take her bullshit, she shuffled over to my desk in her tiny little witch boots when she got the news on Tuesday afternoon.  “Did you hear?” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.  “Did you hear about Kaitlyn?”

I did.

“Oh, I’m just beside myself,” she sobbed.  “First my cat, now this?”

Uh huh.

“Well,” she sniffed, drying it up.  “When I’m feeling a bit more…you know, stable…do you think you could show me how to use my Blackberry?”

This, this right here, is what I refer to as a “suicide pig.”  It’s anyone who gets some kind of thrill out of sadness or loss or a big change.  Anyone who uses it as a chance to advertise themselves and their feelings to the entire world.

I came up with this phrase when I still worked at the fucktard writing studio.  A woman had, unfortunately, shared a story she wrote about her brother’s suicide, or a story that in some way mentioned her brother’s suicide.  Before the next class meeting, I overheard this other tubby cunt going over and over with the instructor the fact that she had been “inspired” by the story shared last week, and had changed her ideas, and then sat down and wrote an entire story about, what the fuck do you know, suicide!  “And I just, you know, I don’t want to be insensitive, I don’t want to, you know, like, make Diana uncomfortable, so I mean, could you just read my story and let me know if it’s acceptable?”  She was so excited, she could hardly get her poorly-chosen words to flap out of her big wet fish mouth fast enough.  The instructor assured her that whatever she’d written would be fine.  “Okay, because I think, you know, that maybe the three of us, you, me, and Diana, should maybe sit down together and discuss how I don’t mean to hurt her feelings by writing about a suicide…”

Then on the class break, the original Suicide Pig cornered Diana by the teapot and struck up another conversation about it.  “OH I was just so nerrrrvous that you’d be offended!  I really hope you didn’t take my story the wrong way!”  Diana assured her that it was nothing to be worried about, her brother’s suicide had happened a long time ago and she didn’t have any problem talking about suicide.  “Oh thank goodness!  Well, do you, um, mind if I ask what happened exactly?”  Diana shared that her brother had hung himself.  “Oh gosh!  That must have been so awwwful!”  And the look on her face, the candy-sweetness in her voice, her giant wet mouth…one of the most gruesomely sick things I’ve ever seen.  If you’d told her there was fresh blood dripping from the ceiling she would have looked up and opened her mouth as wide as she could.

I am so tired of people’s plastic emotions, worn around the arm like Gucci purses.  I’m so tired of people processing death and sadness like it’s a fucking McGriddle.


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Coffee Anus

Now I’m really going to blow your fucking mind.


If a Starbucks has nothing but coffee, and it falls over in a forest, is it really a Starbucks?

I don’t know.  But what I do know is that I have to be at work at 7 every morning this week.  It’s brutal enough due to the fact that it’s a wstarbucks-cup-cupcakeeek before the time changes, so getting up at 5am is  like getting up at 2am: just as dark and only a little less stupid.  And I know that it bothers me that the only espresso fill-up station on, near, or around my commute is an awful Starbucks in a grocery store next to the train (which is so weird to begin with: it’s like the train platform has a grocery tumor, and the fruits & vegetables section in the grocery store has a coffee shop tumor…some kind of creepy transportation/fresh food/greedy coffee chain fusion.  People sit in the loungey area with their laptops out, messing with their iPhones and trying really hard not to look like they’re in a filthy chain grocery store coffee chain shit bin.).  So anyway, the only point in going into one of these places is to get a fancy espresso drink.  If I wanted a damn $3 cup of coffee I can brew at home for a hundredth of the price, I’d be an idiot and someone should hit me in the face.  I want a Venti Somethingorother, dammit.  I’m tired and I need a shock to my brain stem.  So it’s really stupid when you walk up to the counter and give them your order and it takes a whole twenty minutes to say it (I believe I’ve mentioned that I’m an asshole), then they say “Our steamer’s broken.  So only coffee and tea.”

I’d like to know how Starbucks is a Starbucks without steaming capabilities.  I don’t see what now separates the grocery store Starbucks from a giant coffee-shitting anus.  I’ll get my shit coffee at home, thank you.

Cupcake Masterpiece Theater

So yeah.  I did a little search for “starbucks cupcakes” because I was going to point out that Starbucks really messed up when they stopped making the Vanilla Bean and Triple Chocolate cupcakes.  After they knocked that one out of the park, they decided to roll it back a little bit and start making these awful red velvet cupcakes, and I guess part of making them is leaving them out on the counter overnight, and also adding giant spoonfuls of baking powder and not mixing it in properly.  Those things are like biting into a rock that bleeds.  A far cry from the cuppycakes of old:


Uh huh. Right there. Yeah.

Upon my search, I found the first cupcake, other images of which you can find at the blog whose credit I have left on the stolen Starbucks cupcake picture.  If you can’t tell, I am not going to mention any names because I am about to make fun of her/him/it:

“As for the Starbuck cups, i did a google search to see what the Starbuck’s logo looked like since i never really studied it before. So after finding some great pictures, i begain the painstaking effort of slowly painting on the logos onto the cups.. which trust me is one of the toughest things I’ve ever done due to how tiny i had to make the Starbucks cup in order to fit it onto the cupcake. Trust me, painting on the logo onto a cup that is smaller than my thumb is not the easiest thing to do. I could feel my hand shaking with each stroke of my brush and i had to hold my breath every time i lay brush to cup. Whew!!”

Painstaking effort! It’s not easy!   Trust me!  TRUST ME!!!

Jesus Christ.  “…lay brush to cup”???  Was that a cupcake blog or a Hallmark family drama?  Oh, anyway, thank God Tammy got that Starbucks logo painted on all right.  I bet she was so tired after, she had to sit down on the sofa and have herself a whole glass of 79 cent grape soda from the dollar store.

Then you’re outta luck, PAL.

At work, I am sometimes forced to get coffee at this place in the basement cafeteria called “Java City!”  They’ve got this big round sign with a bunch of tall brown buildings on an orange background, I think that’s supposed to represent Java City With Exclamation Point.  I don’t know about you, but just the logo for Java City! makes me feel kind of like I might throw up from caffeine overdose.  Every time I walk by, I swear every fiber in my being gets really excited and then screams “OH NO” simultaneously, and hell, I’m surprised I haven’t suffered a seizure and collapsed on the floor in front of the Java City! kiosk simply because of their marketing.

There’s a Starbucks across campus (people around here say “across campus” to mean “in another building”…any building.  It could be the building next door.  It could be the adjoining building…which, in this case, it IS).  So I went there for a quad shot.  What do you know?  Their milk steamer was working just fine, they were all using it to blow steam up each other’s asses in their downtime.  They had a lot of downtime because the espresso machine was broken.  So yeah, I had to walk my ass (which is fast taking the shape of my desk chair) ALL THE WAY BACK ACROSS CAMPUS and hit up Java City!

Back at the Java City!, they keep their workers imprisoned in a 2×2 pen, which is equipped with everything in the world you’d need to make anyone sick.  The Java City! employees are not happy to see you because it means they have to take all their fingernails off so they can pull a shot.  They announce your drink order, get it wrong, then when you correct them they scream THAT’S WHAT I SAID over the sound of the steamer.  Then there’s that giant fake city looming over your head like it’s about to collapse on you.

So, another question: if everything you need to make floofy flavored coffee drinks can fit in a tiny booth, why the hell do we have Starbucks, hmmmmm?

Anyway.  I think Java City! would be the city you’d go to if you planned to die from a stress-related heart ailment.  Java City! would do it to you, for sure.

And if you sit in the Starbucks in the grocery store in the train station, sipping your latte, and you say into your iPhone “Yeah, I’m at the ‘Bucks…” then I hope you go find yourself clutching your chest in a Java City! sewer someday, pal.



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More things to add to the List of Dumb.


One thing that bothers me about Netflix is that they won’t let you let go of your past.  The only thing I’m allowed to do to my ex-boyfriend’s (of 3.5 years ago) queue, which was connected to my account while we lived together, is look at it.  I can’t remove anything from it.  I can’t delete him as a user.  I just have to sit there and stare at his inactive list of movies, grayed-out and awaiting a shipment that will never come.  I have to endure the constant error message that I will have to “speak with the account owner” if I want to make any changes to this user’s queue.  Netflix refuses to acknowledge the possibility that I could be the account owner, looking at the queue of one of my account users, and trying to get the fuck rid of it for good.

How do you explain to a current boyfriend that your ex-boyfriend’s movies are still in your Netflix account?  With his NAME at the top?  It’s obscene, this last bit of someone else’s life that refuses to be removed from yours.  I feel like I have some kind of cyst on my pancreas that modern medicine can’t reach, not even with lasers made by Jesus.

“Oh, ignore him, bunnyface.  And ignore his movie choices.  I never would have watched that stupid remake of King Kong with him.  Or that horrible movie with Clive Owen and Jennifer Aniston.  Shh…there there.  Ignore him and he’ll go away.”

Another thing that bothers me is that I don’t understand why the toilet in the women’s bathroom on this floor has to be auto-flush.  And why it has to be cranked up to the highest flush power, and the most sensitive motion detection. When you sit down to pee, you can’t move one inch, or the demon in the toilet will explode and spray water all over you.  When you stand up, you’ve got to run out the door as fast as your pants-around-your-ankles legs will carry you, because the spray reaches all around the stall, spattering walls, seat, and your clothes.  And as the stall door swings on its hinge, it sets off the flush at least two more times, causing everyone walking by to wonder just what the hell you’re trying to flush.

I don’t understand why the Ladies’ Only Couture and Luxury Goods Marketing Club thinks it’s appropriate to advertise their club meetings on the back of the stall door, now that we’re on the subject.  Luxury goods, indeed.  Now you can look at a low resolution image of a Fendi purse while you take a Jamie Lee Curtis, ladies.

I also don’t understand why so many business school students do not know how to write a check that will cash.  Or why so many of them pretend to be reading the library’s copy of The New York Times, then shove it under their leather folios and walk out the door all quick and crazy like they’re giving out free tits made of hamburger meat outside.  Really?  Stealing newspapers?  These are the douchebags who will be sticking their dicks in American finance pretty soon.  Every time one of them does it, I want to lean out the door and scream “GO AHEAD!  WE’VE GOT FULL TEXT ACCESS, MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRR!”

Why is the Dane Cook hairstyle still so popular with guys who are trying to look professional?  It’s like a foot tall, asshole.  I noticed that you bothered to run a comb straight up through all of the hair on the top of your head, but you didn’t bother to bring a fucking pen NOR a single piece of paper to your JOB INTERVIEW.  Which is why you’re standing at my desk, whining like a three year old who’s wanted nothing his whole life but a piece of paper from my printer.


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